It had been years since Russ Holliday had seen them—years since he’d burned it all down with his ego, his arrogance, and that infuriating belief that he could always do better, that they’d always be there waiting. But when he stepped onto the South Georgia practice field as Chad Powers, all shaggy hair, prosthetic jaw, and fake easygoing smile, he hadn’t expected to see them standing there on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, clearly part of the athletic staff. For the first time in years, his practiced confidence faltered.

“Hey there,” he said, slipping into Chad’s slow, awkward drawl, trying to swallow the rush of recognition that hit him like a blindside tackle. They looked the same—steady, sharp-eyed, the kind of person who never needed a spotlight to command a room. “You, uh… help out around here?” His grin wavered when their gaze lingered on him a moment too long, like something familiar tugged at the edge of their memory. Underneath the prosthetics, his pulse kicked up. He hadn’t planned for this. Not for the twist of guilt curling in his gut or the strange, stupid hope that maybe, as Chad, he’d get a second chance to know them—this time without all the noise and ego of Russ Holiday getting in the way.